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She's home. Such as it is. The weather is grey and dank and there are big fat raindrops falling from the sky with as much enthusiasm as she feels right now. Everything feels grey and colourless apart from the almost painful kaleidoscope of light that is the small boy nestled against her front with his stick thin arms flung around her. And Emma - the woman currently swamped by her parents and various well-wishers a little distance away. She feels restless, and the sense that she is not safe is lingering with irritating stubbornness. This is fair enough, she supposes, given what they have just been through. But she doesn't want to dwell on the events of the past few weeks – they have been hellish and harrowing – she braces herself against the shudder that passes through her.

Instead, Regina focuses on her son whose head seems to reach higher on her body than she last recalls. He pulls his head away and smiles – actually smiles – at her. It's a testament to how rattled she is that her heart is not squeezing in her chest and she simply smiles back, able to for once, enjoy his delight without fear or anticipation of rejection any moment. She's where she's meant to be – home, with her son, Emma floating about but not too far away, Snow being irritating (although she has not actually said a word to Regina apart from the little thank you speech), David looking like Christmas and his birthday and world peace have all come at once. She is… 'safe'… the word feels foreign and strange in her mind. She doesn't feel safe. Can't quite shake the feeling of eyes on her and fingers skittering down her spine. She knows logically, Pan is dead. His influence cannot reach anyone now… His followers –

"Regina."

It's Emma, looking at her with some consternation. The blonde pauses a while… jaw muscles working, her hand twitching before it curls into a fist. Regina nods – gestures back to Emma's family and nudges Henry towards his other mother. Regina swallows the kernel of anger at Henry going without question, although he does keep a hold of her hand as long as he can and throws a smile over his shoulder before going. Again. Always. But her son, as smart and grown up as he is, doesn't need to be aware of her inner struggle to still not rage against the world at this. She has been doing so well. Had been doing so well… before. She also crushes down her initial reaction to such condescending statements. In his eyes, she is good, she is a hero. And she will endeavour to keep that faith in her up and not be too… difficult. After all, he has also had a… harrowing experience on the island, and although he has been back for far longer, he will still be bearing the cross of it for a while. She does wish she could ease that somehow but any method she would have employed would have them all looking at her again with unease and fear… though some of the townfolk do still look at her like that anyway.

Emma is still looking at her through the crowd, peering past her family. Her eyes are focused and dark, and it makes Regina want to fidget. She does not fidget. She will not fidget under Emma's gaze.

She turns and leaves them to it. These last few weeks will be carefully tucked away. She's a survivor. She has survived. Emma is in once piece. That's all that matters. They are 'safe'.

Emma is standing in a daze as she watches Regina leave, the other woman's back straight and shoulders set. She sighs. A dull ache settling in her stomach.

"Ma," Her son pipes up, "Was it bad? How was Pan defeated? Will you tell me? Can we go to the diner? There's so much to talk about! Did mom help you defeat him?" Emma reels a little before she feels Snow place her hand on her arm and resists the urge to throw her off. She closes her eyes again for a moment just to… just to try and centre herself with all these bodies and people and good vibes.

David, thank god, David - who is watching her with narrowed hawk eyes is the one to interrupt his family. Emma tries to convey her thanks with a simple glance to her father, but she isn't sure if she has succeeded. He simply walks beside her. Snow falls in line on the other side, arm snaking out again to loop with Emma's and again she has to violently supress the urge to lash out at her mother. She grits her teeth, eyes darting around her, but unable to really take much in whilst at the same time clocking everything. Emma spent the short walk answering monosyllabic answers to Henry's peppering questions. She's not paying attention to where they are going but soon they are at the entrance to the loft and David is holding the door open for her.

"Why don't we all get into our laziest clothes, and eat. Just spent some time together?" Snow is busying herself in the kitchen, banging pots. The loud crashes of metal and plastic are setting Emma's teeth on edge. She tries to smile, she really does. Tries to force herself to remember that this is home, this is safe and safe meant there were no-

"Emma, won't you come sit down with me so we can talk?" Henry interrupts her mental monologue, his clear trusting eyes looking up at her and making her throat want to close up. She can feel her pulse pounding with startling clarity, her palms sweating.

"Um." She fumbles, wanting to sit with her son, reassure him. She is supposed to be this pillar of confidence and strength but right now? She really just wants to go upstairs and hide. She doesn't want to face the inquisition she knows is coming, between Henry's natural inquisitiveness and Snows almost cloying attempts at mothering her. She shuffles over to where her son is patting the cushioned surface of the sofa and smiling, beatific and beautiful. God she just wants to run. To curl up, a warmer body behind her. God she wants-

"Emma, would you like some tea?" The blonde is thankful, even in this fraught situation for the interruption. She turns from Henry, from sitting down to the well-meaning interrogation and moves towards the promise of food.

She is fucking hungry.

Perching on a stool, she nods quickly and, looking over her shoulder she sees Henry looking not so happy. She beckons him over to sit at the centre island.

Fuck.

Island.

Fuck!

She shuts her eyes and grits her teeth as her heart suddenly jumps. Her pulse begins to hammer and her breath feels restricted.

An echo of her name is what forces her to open her eyes and she sees the concerned eyes and furrowed brows of Snow, Henry. David comes up behind her, startling her. Emma launches off the stool and stumbles to the steps, grasping onto the rail for dear life. She shuts her eyes again, briefly. Focuses on her breathing, trying like hell not to panic. She recognises this for what it is – a panic attack. She's seen it enough times on perps.

"Emma? Are you alright?" Snow, touching her elbow causes her to flinch once more.

"I'm fine," She stammers out, trying to smile. "I'm just really tired guys…" She tries not to feel guilt for lying or shame for not being strong here but with all of them looking with concern it's making her want to vomit and cry and possibly tear her nails from her fingers. Emma has never dealt well with concern. "I'm just going to go to bed, if that's all right." She tries to smile reassuringly, but is aware it comes off as more as a grimace.

Snow takes a deep breath, moving to block Henry from view, "Do you want me to bring something up?" the she murmurs, eyes searching Emma's tense face. Emma gives a small nod, and tries to convey that she is so sorry for being like this, but frankly, she just needs to go. So she does. She moves off, up the stairs, singularly focused on getting her back against the inside of her bedroom door.

The pale wood is cool and calm against her back. The window is slightly open, the sound of wind rustling past offers nothing but knives so she crosses swiftly and shuts it, breathing deeply as she rests her forehead against the glass. Turning, Emma moves the bed, sits, and reaches to switch the lamp on. A small modicum of peace trickles into her system as she assesses the room, and she lets out a shuddering breath.

Her eyes dart to the door as a soft knock reaches her ears. Snow opens it slowly and tentatively pokes her head in, a plated sandwich proffered through the gap in the door.

"I'm sorry," Emma starts brokenly. She holds her hands in front of her, fidgeting as she tries to elaborate but there are no words right now. She bites her lip and sighs, looking down.

Snow opens the door a little more and slips into the quiet room. She places the plate on the bed and pauses for a moment. Emma cannot look at her, she feels pathetic. She can feel Snow's eyes on her and is bracing herself for words or contact. She wills her mother to go away. Remembers her parents words in Neverland – another baby – Emma needed her to leave so she could figure out how to not fall apart and go back to being Emma Swan: Bad ass, and worthwhile. Not Emma Swan: really fucking fragile and confused and quite possibly suffering from PTSD. Emma starts anyway, at that realisation.

PTSD.

Ah.

Makes sense.

"What the hell happened?" Snow is now crouching in front of Emma and has her hands clasped in front of her, in full view.

Emma's throat constricts at the words. She shakes her head. She can't. She can't talk about it here.

Won't talk about it. Not with her family. Not with the people who look at her as The Saviour. Not with her son who still looks at the world in terms of good and bad.

Snow nods slowly, she doesn't press, thankfully. Emma thanks all the things that her mother has decided to leave things be right now. She quietly offers a "Goodnight," before turning.

Emma's hand shoots out with a deep breath, tugging Snow back around. She meets those soulful, kind eyes which always look at her with such depth that it normally makes Emma quail. It does make her quail a little. "Thank you." The words are quiet, fragile, but Snow nods eagerly, a small smile appearing on her face. Emma feels a little better at this reaction.

Snow leaves her to her own devices, advising softly that she'll check on her in the morning and to sleep well. Henry will sleep on the couch, and for this, Emma feels more guilt. For tonight though, he can manage she decides feeling selfish. She'll thing on things more tomorrow. For now? She is so tired, exhausted. Both from all the expectation to be strong and steady from the town, her family, and from her experiences in the last few weeks. She doesn't bother to undress - throws herself into the bed, relishing the soft feeling of everything, and ignores the fact that she could really do with a shower.

It had been painfully embarrassing to find out that Ruby and Snow had cleaned her up on the voyage back. No self-respecting adult wants her friend and her mom to see them like that, but it wasn't like she'd had a say in the matter. From the throngs of words that have been thrown at her since she woke up, she'd pieced together that she had been in quite a state. Regina and her, both a mess of bruises and blood. She couldn't remember clearly, just remembered bone deep tiredness and pain.

Regina.

Emma instinctively turns onto her side and curls her knees up to her chest, staring at the night sky out the window. Was she ok? Regina had probably gone home, burned the clothes on her back and showered before deigning to let the island touch her sheets. Emma braces herself for a reaction to that word as she thought it – focuses on deep breaths in through her nose as her hands involuntarily clench. She sighs. Regina always looks after herself better than she does.

She tries to focus on the sensation of the cotton sheets touching her bare toes if she wriggles them, focuses on the pliable give of the mattress. The lack of deep dark and stone. The smell of vanilla that seemed to permeate everything in this apartment. The gentle burr of voices from downstairs.

Restless, but oh so very tired, Emma falls asleep trying to remind herself where she is.